


Safe

by identity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Past Homelessness, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, taking care of sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/identity/pseuds/identity
Summary: Sherlock prides himself on his control. He deletes memories, dresses nicely, and has complete control of his transport. But he is still haunted. John discovers his coping mechanism...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quickly and just needed to get it out. Apologies for any grammatical errors and pacing issues. I just need to get this out so I can do my schoolwork. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy it!

The cuts Sherlock had made were neither exceptionally deep nor long. But he had nicked a nearly healed scab—those transparent ones that are still a bit crusty. And he had carved through a long, raised scar. The result was that he had gouged through these healing signs and part of his scar was flopping around as though it were unhinged. He examined it. The part he had cut through was no longer raised. He had cut off his scar.

Maybe it was this novelty that had him panting, gripping his wrist. All of a sudden, his usual appreciation of the beauty of his ravaged arm turned into disgust. It was ugly. Instead of feeling slower, centered, cocooned in pain from his mind’s never-ending churning, and able to get up and confront the day, he lay huddled on his side like dead weight.

Logically, it was nothing. Hints of spots threatened before his eyes but a drink of water and some carbohydrates would restore him.

And yet—he was panicking, taking short, quick breaths, and yet helpless, so he lay there uselessly staring at his arm.

He felt the pain too. More than usual. Instead of a centering ache, it ripped into him, made him shake and clutch his arm to his chest and whimper pathetically, silently. His pinky and ring finger were weak and, not for the first time, he worried about losing mobility. As he was a violinist, he had taken the precaution of only cutting on his right arm, though he was not left-handed. His right arm was his bow arm, and he had calculated that his left hand required more dexterity when playing his violin. Cutting on his right arm also meant that the blade was handled by his left—his non-dominant hand—which, while it lacked the same amount of control, it also, he thought, lacked the same strength. He knew cutting deeply meant possible damage to his ligaments and tendons—he wasn’t an idiot. He was careful, always so _careful_.

Today all the calculations and knowledge of precautions he’d developed went out the window. Maybe he was finally being healthy and developing a sense of self-preservation, maybe he was simply more of a coward than before, because he was suddenly worried about his bow arm when he had dismissed it as a concern years ago. What if he would never be able to play again? How stupid he was to throw it away. Trash everything and burn it to the ground. He’d always wanted to mess things up for himself—to fail in the worst and deepest ways possible. He wanted to ruin things for himself. He deserved it.

But he needed the cutting.

A cold wave of self-hatred rose up in him—threatened to drown him—and the only way to float was to take up his razor again and press it to his skin to burn cold, steely ribbons through himself.

The razor was cool against his arm. There was a sheen of dried blood on his skin and it made his razor feel like it was scraping against him. He took a breath and took another breath. He felt heady. It was so easy to imagine the blade sliding through his skin, just grazing at first, then—a rush of adrenaline as he willed himself to push through the pain, through instinct, summoning that perverseness inside him in order to keep pressing down, down, _down_ , harder and harder, until he felt the cool steel deep inside him, and the rush of blood swelling to the surface.

He clenched his eyes shut and dropped the razor.

For the first time, fear outweighed the perverse pleasure and he collapsed.

He never bled too much, never cut too deep, but this time bloody tissues cluttered the bed. Blood was still welling up through the slits in his skin. He felt stupid because if he hadn’t wanted to feel like this, the answer was simply to not cut. But he needed it.

The front door slammed and steady footsteps traversed the seventeen steps up to the flat. John was home, Sherlock registered vaguely, heart leaping into his throat. If he didn’t act fast, he’d be caught….

Simple as that, he began to cry. He didn’t know why, exactly, but try as he might, he couldn’t stop. He pressed his hand to his mouth desperately, muffling the sharp breaths.

“I’m home!” John called. “Sherlock?”

He couldn’t move. Dread filled him. It was like the tears had grabbed hold of his lungs and heart and brain and were shaking him, holding him hostage.

The door to the bedroom swung open. “Sherlock—”

For a moment John simply stood there, taking everything in. Sherlock— _the Sherlock Holmes_ —was sitting on his bed, hand pressed to his mouth, sobbing uncontrollably, and—John’s heart leapt to his throat—his arm… oh god…

 


	2. Chapter 2

John could tell from the doorway that the cuts on Sherlock’s arm weren’t deep, but they were somehow more grotesque than any wound he had seen on the battlefield.

Sherlock had closed his eyes when John walked in, but now he opened them desperately. “John—?”

Sherlock wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted John to stay. He wanted him to leave and never come back.

“Sherlock,” John said again, but this time it was one of acceptance, of action. Sherlock closed his eyes again. Oh god, what now? What would John do? He couldn’t tell. He’d never been confronted in a situation like this, never been comforted. No one had ever seen him like this. He sobbed even harder.

Suddenly John was lowering himself onto the bed, too. The bed springs creaked, and Sherlock might have laughed any other day.

Then it all happened very quickly, Sherlock thought: war-roughened hands, surgeon’s hands plucked the bloody blade from him, brushed it onto the floor along with the other blades Sherlock had handy, in case he needed a fresh one. Then those same hands reached for Sherlock himself.

“John, I don’t know what to do!” Sherlock sobbed, and John stopped reaching for Sherlock.

“What do you mean, love?” John said.

“I—” Sherlock took several very heavy, very involuntary breaths. “I—”

“Shh, it’s alright, Sherlock,” John said. It took all his courage, but Sherlock glanced at him anyways. Though was nothing but concern in John’s eyes, he had kept his distance, his hands resting neutrally in his lap. John’s respect only made Sherlock sob harder, curling his body away from John.

There were so many words inside Sherlock, _fuck you_ and _go away_ among them. He couldn’t accept help. He didn’t know how. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. He was so impossibly, irrevocably broken.

They sat there in a kind of tense, detached impasse for what felt like hours until Sherlock wore himself out and his breathing slowed. He was exhausted and numb. A few more tears slipped out.

“Go away, John,” he heard himself say. _No, no, no,_ his mind screamed, _stay, please, please stay._

“Please just let me take care of your wounds,” John said evenly, so evenly Sherlock felt his heart wrench. He felt his body begin to relax. Finally, finally he had began to accept and feel relieved that John wasn’t going to—to—

_flowery perfume and you’re worthless and you’re not my son and you’re stupid and pain, pain, pain, and vomiting up pills and father’s whiskey in the garden when he was fourteen and—_

he stared at John, bewildered.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what that look means,” John said, calmly.

He couldn’t answer, but his arm stung. Slowly, he extended it towards John, John who would take care of him, who would ease his pain instead of contributing to it.

“Thank you,” John said. “I’m glad you’re letting me do this.” He began to wipe dried blood off Sherlock’s arm. His touch was cool and clinical, and suddenly the thought occurred that John had been trained for this and Sherlock felt sharply rejected, dismissed. He bit his lip and looked away.

Then a hand cupped his cheek. “Hey,” John said softly, “it’s okay. I’m going to clean you up and then put some bandages on. Does that sound alright to you?”

Everything was all right again. John made things okay. Sherlock nodded. John smiled briefly. John went on cleaning him and Sherlock closed his eyes, exhausted. Without thinking about it, he leaned in and rested his head against John’s shoulder.

After the bandages went on, so carefully and gently, John pressed a kiss in to Sherlock’s sweaty curls. _Oh no_ , Sherlock thought, as even more tears welled up. _Oh no…_

“Hush,” John said quietly. “It’s alright now.” He rested one hand in Sherlock’s hair— _oh—_ and one on his back, and held him close, and began to rock.

Something seared in Sherlock’s chest, a pain he had never known existed, and his own hands scrabbled for purchase in John’s shirt.

“Can you tell me what you were doing?” John whispered into Sherlock’s hair, rocking them gently. “What made you do it?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly against John’s chest. No, he could not say. He did not know, not at this moment. “Thirsty,” he whispered. “John.”

“Okay,” John said, making to stand up, but Sherlock tightened his fists in John’s shirt. John didn’t argue. “Up we go then,” he said. Together they slid off the bed without breaking the embrace, John careful to guide them so they didn’t step on the razor blades. John walked backwards as Sherlock clung to him all the way to the kitchen, where John filled a glass with water and handed it to him. Sherlock drank two whole glasses of water. After he was done, John pressed another kiss in his hair.

John was so gentle. Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and shook. He didn’t know what to do with gentle people. He was sure he’d damage them, the way he’d damaged Mummy—that was why she’d been so mean to him….

But John was an army doctor, right? He killed people. For Sherlock. John was strong. He protected Sherlock. Just like now because he was shaking so John put his arms around him and held on tight.

“Please don’t leave,” Sherlock whispered. They were some of the most honest words he had ever spoken.

“I won’t. Sherlock. I won’t. Okay? I’m here for you.”

“But you just saw…”

“Sherlock, I’m in it for the long haul, in it with you. You keep heads in the fridge, and you think this would make me leave? Hm? Just because you’re in pain?”

“No, John…” Sherlock found himself answering. He felt released from something, relieved. His shoulders slumped. “Please…”

“Please what, sweetheart?” John asked, holding him tight.

“Tired, John.”

They began to make their way back to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock found himself clutching John’s shirt even more desperately. When they were in their room, John cleaned the bed of bloody tissues and tucked Sherlock in.

“You’ll be alright?” John asked.

Sherlock took three deep breaths. “No,” he whispered, very quietly and very selfishly, but it was okay now.

John slid into the bed, under the covers, and scooted over to cuddle Sherlock. “Sleep now,” John said. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, covering Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock could feel the warmth leaking from John’s hand to his eyelids. It was the strangest, most comforting sensation….

Seeing warm black, he snuggled further into John. Despite the talk coming tomorrow, despite his secret found out, he felt safe for the first time in his life….

John pressed one last kiss into Sherlock’s hair and lingered there….

They slept.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, John had always been protective of his friend, but now he was going to keep an eye out. He wanted to help. He was Dr John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He made things right.

John woke before Sherlock because he was cold. Opening his eyes, he saw that Sherlock had stolen the covers somehow, even as he remained huddled into John for warmth. Sherlock was snuffling into his sleep shirt, clutching him tightly. John sighed. The day before, he’d have had no idea that Sherlock could be so… diminutive?

That was the wrong word. Almost as soon as John had thought it, one of Sherlock’s eyes opened and, even without the assistance of the other eye, radiated with piercing accusation.

John grabbed the blanked and distributed it over the both of them equally. Safe under its warmth, he leaned down and hugged Sherlock, kissing tousled curls. This was nice, the way the pale light fought against drawn curtains and lit the room like a whisper. It was nice, the way Sherlock closed his eye and the edges of his mouth quirked up, the way he breathed so slowly, completely relaxed. John thought of older times when he’d wake up thinking how surreal it was to still be alive, to still wake up, day after day. Now, waking into the feeling of warmth and contentment shocked him, made him ache with tenderness for the younger man who was curled into him and around him. He was seized by the urge to kiss the detective’s nose, his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids….

He’d make breakfast and check Sherlock’s bandages. Maybe they’d go to the park, where they’d have a talk. He wanted to hold Sherlock’s hand and protect him and care for him. He wanted to make sure whatever it was that was hurting him went away. He wanted to keep Sherlock safe.

What scared him was that this was obviously not the first time Sherlock had hurt himself. Last night he had seen so many scars—old scars, new scars—he was a bloody doctor; he knew the way scars worked. Rows upon rows of scars.

But it didn’t make sense to him that Sherlock— _his Sherlock_ —engaged in… self-harm. Self-injury. The term was hard to even think. He’d seen… _self-injury…_ at work sometimes, had even stitched a teenaged girl up as she sat stoically, masking tears. Nurses and doctors hadn’t known how to respond. One nurse had even refused to help the girl, because the wounds were self-inflicted, so did she not want them to be taken care of? Then, after John had taken over, after he’d numbed the area before giving her stitches and bandages, and after he had cleaned any other wounds—should he let her go? Should he refer her to a psychiatrist? Should he section her? Was she suicidal? She hadn’t seemed too distressed, but Sherlock had, last night…. He hadn’t known what to do….

Sherlock was always so—well, he was Sherlock, wasn’t he? He jumped over rooftops, took down armed serial killers, survived falls. It was difficult to think of his friend as so… fragile.

He hugged Sherlock tighter. It was like he thought would happen. Once he got a hold of him, he couldn’t let go. The detective’s body was all hard angles and bony hips. He needed feeding up.

Kissing Sherlock’s forehead again, John got up, gently untangling himself from his friend. For a moment, he gazed at Sherlock. He’d never seen the man genuinely sleep before, especially not in a bed. Now, wrapped in white sheets and that soft, striped blanket, just the tip of his head sticking out, in the gentle morning light, Sherlock looked so young, so… precious.

John nodded once, then made his way to the kitchen. Taking care of Sherlock started now, and after yesterday, Sherlock needed sustenance. He started on scrambled eggs, sausages, and toast, hoping the sound of the pan wouldn’t waken his friend. All he wanted was for Sherlock to get some sleep, eat enough… (he wanted to hold him when he got lonely, bath him when he was too sad to so himself, feed him when it was hard for him to eat…)

Truth be told, John had always been protective of his friend, but now he was going to keep an eye out. Maybe… maybe his odd eating habits were more than just odd. Maybe the unpredictable time alone was when he cut. Maybe when he wouldn’t leave the house to go to the shop or to a low ranked crime scene—maybe he was… out of sorts. He wanted to help. He was Dr John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He made things right.

Behind him there was a shuffle. He turned. Sherlock stood at the kitchen’s threshold, holding a monograph on dust. To John’s disappointment, the detective had dressed himself in one of his severe suits. He was even wearing his shoes.

At least he wasn’t wearing his greatcoat, John mused. “Come and have breakfast, l—” he stumbled on the word _love,_ his own heart catching.

Sherlock looked disinterested. “Not hungry.”

“ _Really?_ Come on, I made your favorite,” John said, trying to smile and cajole the detective towards the table.

“Why have you moved my microscope?” Sherlock asked without moving from the kitchen’s perimeter. He flipped through the monograph. “I have an experiment waiting.”

John blinked. Sherlock was… it was like a horror movie in slow motion, when a character closed their eyes and when they opened them, they were a completely different person, possessed somehow. Gone was the softness he’d cherished not twenty minutes ago. Gone was any hint of injury, of the young man who’d clung to him so desperately last night. John sighed. “Sherlock, can you just… come here?”

The younger man didn’t move, just gazed at John, who was uncomfortably reminded of that unfathomable moment before Sherlock had extended his arm towards John.

“Sherlock… please? For me?”

Sherlock stepped forward, his face remaining as blank as cement, and sat at the table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit of a filler chapter, but I'm really not in a good place right now and I wanted to fantasize about having someone care about me the way John cares about Sherlock. 
> 
> By the way, thank you for all the kudos, comments, subscriptions, and reviews! I was so surprised at the response and at how many people even clicked on this fic. It means a lot to me that something so personal to me would be enjoyed by others.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why should he continue? He sliced into his arm. No reason.

“I don’t want to talk about it, John.”

Sherlock made sure his voice was sharp, cutting. John wanted to talk—he might as well get it over with. Might as well try to push it aside. He clenched his stomach muscles, feeling the strength in his body as he sat up straight, waiting for John to speak. He rested his arm on the table. The soreness was a harsh reminder of last night, but it centered him, made him remember to fight.

“I’m not asking you to talk, Sherlock, not right now,” John said quietly. “Right now, I just want you to eat some breakfast.”

Sherlock let out a breath in surprise. In that case, John’s insistence that he sat at the table seemed overly emphatic. He waited as John slid over a mouthwatering plate heaped with two pieces of toast, scrambled eggs, sausages, and strawberries.

“I already said, I’m not hungry,” Sherlock bit out, steeling himself—against what, he didn’t know, but he knew something was coming.

John loaded his own plate and came to sit down across Sherlock. He began to eat. “I know,” he said. “You’re usually not hungry. I just want to make sure you’re okay, you know, after last night. Being upset takes a lot out of a person.”

“I wasn’t upset.”

John looks at Sherlock. “You’re telling me what I saw is normal for you?”

 _Strength,_ Sherlock reminded himself. “No, of course it wasn’t _normal._ Then again, nothing about me is _normal_. If you’re telling me I’m a freak—”

“No. No, Sherlock, how could you—no. I’m not. I’m just—”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said shortly. “It’s not a big deal. Yesterday was unusual. I don’t like to make a big deal out of my self-harm because I don’t want it to become a _thing._ It’s not insurmountable. I’m not addicted. I don’t understand why it’s a bad thing. I heal. I don’t cut deep. I use clean blades. I rarely permanently scar. I’m healthy about it.”

Sherlock couldn’t tell what John was thinking. So he pushed on. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he clipped out, drumming his fingers on the table and letting his voice stiffen into an upper class drawl he knew would set John’s teeth on edge. He held his head up. “I have a very strong will. Don’t make me cut you off from our… domestic arrangement.”

 _He did have a strong will, too. He wasn’t lying at all. (Too many people thought he was a liar.) He’d not spoken to or acknowledged his father since he was ten, and it wasn’t because his father had left, or his parents had divorced. No, Da—FATHER—his name was_ father _—had pushed Mummy about one too many times and then Mummy left for her own mother’s funeral, and it was just Sherlock and his father in that house and the silence had descended on him. Some part of him was blocked off. There was nothing. Nothing bad happened. Just the force of his own will. His obstinate personality pushing his father away. He did this. (He hurt people.) He could delete his father. He could delete John. It wasn’t hard._

John half laughed, half looked like he was realizing something, deciding something. “You’d do that?”

He would. He was a sharp monster. Merciless. Ugly.

“Yes. I could,” Sherlock said.

“You could,” John said slowly, measuredly, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. Sherlock glared back, cold and hard as steel. “But you wouldn’t.”

“Why don’t you believe me? I said I would. I told you I’m fine. I exercise precautions. For god’s sake. Did you think I was lying? I already said what I think. I’m done here.”

The next steps were easy. Sherlock stood up. He took controlled steps towards his coat. Swung it over his shoulders. Remembered to collect himself. Yes, he had his wallet and keys.

He squared his shoulders and fled.

 

***

 

He was so hungry.

 

***

 

He’d had London’s streets memorized since he was fifteen, but he had no idea where he was going.

 

***

 

He stopped outside Angelo’s. He watched the business going on inside. No one could see him, though. He hovered like a dark waif. He thought about going in. He didn’t think he was welcome. He didn’t want Angelo to see him. He didn’t want to smile.

 

***

 

He stopped outside a fish and chips shop. He was so stupid. He didn’t deserve to eat.

 

***

 

He told himself to get over himself. He bought himself takeaway from a tiny hole-in-the-wall Chinese that he had never set foot in before. He ate in one of his boltholes.

 

***

 

His stomach ached but he forced himself to eat it all. He sat there, stomach aching with fullness and picked his forming scabs off. It took force. There was blood under his nails. He stared at the peeling walls. He was safe. He stayed there till he didn’t remember anything, didn’t think or feel, wasn’t anywhere in particular.

 

***

 

He went home and stood in the darkened living room. It was warm here. He could just make out the outline of his and John’s chairs from the yellow streetlights below. Quiet whooshes denoted cars passing. But there were no voices, no screeches of tires. Of the cars, only quiet whirring remained. It was womblike.

The emptiness tore through him. He felt dirty, contaminated. He couldn’t stay here anymore. 221B had been tainted by his horrific secret and he needed to leave. He’d move out tomorrow. He didn’t want to find out that John would not tolerate him here anymore. He knew how changeable people could be. He’d go. There was no other pathway forward that he could see.

One last time, though. He crept into his room and took out his blades. He pressed one to his arm and, absently, sliced between the older wounds. He let the blood trickle, then placed his blade again on new skin. He was not really thinking. He was just doing. The familiarity of the action comforted him. It wasn’t like the ritual of going for a run everyday or showering at a certain time of the day. This was special. This was his. His alone. To enjoy, fear, keep secret, protect. No one was allowed to destroy this thing that he owned. Was it any surprise that the cutting had briefly ceased during his drug years? Was it any surprise that, as he began to climb up the ranks of life—first getting clean, then getting a flat and a job, then getting another flat and another job, and then getting John, public acclaim, and reputation, something of a steady job—his old habit had escalated? No, it made perfect sense to him. He didn’t need to explain it to John, John who got his kicks out of Sherlock’s oddness, his freakishness.

It was his coping mechanism. It was not just that, but also proof of his control, proof that he was _trying_ to have control. Because he—he was always in trouble, and it was so easy to let go and sink into invisibility, where no one knew him, where he didn’t have to do anything, could squander his life and his brain in that bad place, because he was a failure, because he deserved to rot. He could lie in his filth, could let himself fall from society, morality, his _own_ morality. It was easy. He had no survival instinct. He was barely human.

This way was better. He was trying, at least, to be good. Trying to lead his life, trying not to fall in between the cracks.

No one would catch him. He was beginning to try to catch himself.

He had gained some respect. He had a place to live. He had money. He had some stability.

Why?

He puffed out a single laugh. That was the question. Why should he continue to push forward? Why should he continue?

He sliced into his arm.

No reason.

There was no meaning, no reason in anything, except for the meaning one assigned. He couldn’t think of any meaning. Nothing. A void.

Might as well die, might as well live. None of it meant anything. Sherlock chose to live out of laziness and cowardice. He fell back onto the meaning that institutions dictated. Being rich meant success, so he would strive to be rich. Being traditionally educated meant privilege, so he might go back for another degree. He would achieve based on what he was told was valuable. He would become famous, save children, drive a fast car, win prizes. Those were his goals now, how he measured himself.

He pushed forward. He was nothing. Just savage.

He was so tired. Sometimes even to live is an act of courage, he remembered. 

So he was alive. What now? It was not enough to just live. Because simply living was a waste. He may as well be dead.

He padded back out to the living room. Darkness pressed in on him. His arm ached. He could feel the air on his damp wounds. He flexed his fingers. He felt settled in his body, mindful. He wrapped one arm around himself, remembering John’s touch. He wanted John to hold him until he, Sherlock, was sure John would never let go. The thing was, he wasn’t certain if he would ever be sure that John wouldn’t go.

He was always about to disappear.

He was going to disappear tomorrow. Blank slate, move on. Let go. Nothing but achievement, frantic ambition. He went through his mind, mentally cataloguing what he would need to pack.

A creak behind him. And the lights turned on.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was weary with sleep.

Sherlock didn’t even try to hide his fresh wounds. He was leaving tomorrow, anyway. John took them in so calmly. Still, Sherlock’s shoulders tensed. He was always in trouble.

John must have seen his tenseness. “It’s alright,” he murmured to Sherlock. “C’mere. Come to bed.”

Sherlock was so tired. When John beckoned, he followed. No, no, no, he thought. He had to go forward, had to leave, had to do something, had to achieve, had to prove he was alive for something, otherwise everything would fall apart.

God, he didn’t know what to do. Last night had been so embarrassing. John got into his bed and held the covers up for Sherlock. He climbed in.

“I’m sorry,” John mumbled, touching Sherlock’s hand. “I think I moved too fast.”

He was sinking, disappearing. He was giving up. He didn’t know where he was.

John squeezed his hand. “Missed you today,” he mumbled.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. He stared through the dark, trying to grasp John’s silhouette with his eyes.

In one swift, sure motion, John rolled over and enveloped Sherlock in his arms.

John was warm; his hold was tight. “Don’t worry,” he whispered back. “I won’t let go of you.”

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. His wounds scraped against John’s shirt. His heart ached. He gave up. It was easy.

 


	5. Chapter 5

John stepped back after that and he found himself in a depressive spiral. There was just so much time. He kept busy. There was still too much time. He found himself thinking he could just disappear. He could stop existing. It would be easy. He had pills. He had blades. He had ropes.

Sometimes John would appear at his side. He was gentle. He checked him for wounds, bandaged him hurts and he never yelled, never did anything too brusquely. Sherlock wondered if John was gentle on purpose, or if he could really trust him.

For all his disordered thinking, Sherlock thought if John was always there, he’d eventually make it out of this mess. It was what he ached for most—a companion who trusted him, believed him, stayed with him, provided warmth and constancy. He ached. He hurt. He wished John hadn’t stepped back.

It hurt.

 

***

 

He was lying on the couch. John was pulling on his coat. He didn’t want him to go. They had a conversation about it. John was going to work. He was a professional. Sherlock wasn't.

 

***

 

Suicide was easy. Living was hard.

 

***

 

John came home. John found Sherlock with forty pills in his palm. John watched Sherlock’s hand pulse once as if he were going to try to put them in his mouth before John could stop him. John took the pills out of his hand.

 

***

 

“Yeah, Greg, he’s going to have to take some time off.”

Sherlock lay in bed. He did not need someone telling him what was best for him. To have his capabilities taken away pushed one last stab of pain into his heart. It felt like betrayal.

He would never have a true friend. Something about him alienated people, repulsed them. He had thought John was an anomaly, but not anymore.

Out of professionalism, John left for work. The bills needed to be paid. He left Sherlock.

He crawled out of bed. He wanted to disappear. He thought about running. It was what he did, after all. He discarded the idea. He was too tired. He was giving in. He thought about suicide. He thought about Mycroft.

He was alone.

It hurt.

 

***

 

He had more pills. Of course he did. He was Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling bad, really bad. When I was a kid, I'd stop talking sometimes. I feel like that now. 
> 
> I need someone to take the pills out of my hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was rational to kill himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of time spent in Sherlock's mind.

He lay in a dark murk for a long while. Or it felt like a long while. Thoughts of pills stashed away, thoughts of John calling Greg and telling him he could no longer take cases for a while, and nothing and nothing and nothing.

Eventually it passed. Things always passed.

How depressing.

How funny.

He was depressed. But he found, the longer he lay there, feeling out the darkness inside himself, that he was also hurt, and— _angry._

The thing was, at the end of the day, no matter how hard he tried, how brilliant he was, he would never be understood by anyone.

People were never sympathetic with him. He was mostly okay with this. He was so brilliant that he was indispensible.

What he was _not_ okay with—what was unacceptable now was John’s attitude. To tell him he was _banned_ from cases? To tell Greg Sherlock was down, like he and Greg were two parents that could stop him from doing something? To assume he didn’t know what was best for himself? To assume he knew _anything at all_ about Sherlock and where he was regarding his mental health at the moment? To—essentially—take away Sherlock’s ability to advocate for himself by conspiring with Greg?

He went over it again and again in his mind and the more he thought about it, the more he felt that he was right and John was wrong. John did not know a single jot about him. He didn’t know what he was talking about. John was also not a mental health professional. Sherlock was not in crisis. He was sane and rational. This—this cutting, this depressive spiral was nothing compared to what he had experienced before. That John would not understand cut deeply. Not only was it painful, it was extremely offensive. How dare John assume and control him?

He had thought John would understand the expressive quality of his—well, his actions. He’d subconsciously let John see him with the pills. Had wanted that attention. He wanted to be seen. He had wanted John to know him, _understand_ him. He’d thought, with the gentleness John had exuded, that he could—

God, what was wrong with him?

Sherlock wound both his hands in his hair and pulled.

Looking at it rationally, both he and John were at fault here. John for taking away his agency, and himself for assuming John would understand. He was at fault for not being able to make John understand. For not being able to explain himself.

He’d never been able to. He was always in trouble.

God.

Oh, god.

He was always in trouble. Always in pain. Always the worst. Always his fault. Oh god, what a pitiful child he’d been, oh god, oh god… _stop it, stop it, stop it!_

It was rational to kill himself. There was no hope. Though the chances that Lestrade would take him back were very high, the chance that he would ever maintain a connection or be close to someone was nil. That was the true source of his pain, the precise stab in his back. He would never have a friend, or an acquaintance, or anyone that would stick up for him. He should have known better than to try.

He alienated people. He repulsed them and made them hate him, brought out the parts of people that yelled and screamed and manipulated and neglected and  _hit._

The realization kept him in bed for another two days. For those two days, he felt unbearably young and raw and cold and distant. He was sorry. He was beaten and he was dressed down and he was wrong and he was guilty. He was a child again.

He was sorry and he thought about those pills more than ever. He knew they didn’t weigh much in his hand.

 

He should have known better than to try.

 

What was it about John? He made him feel—safe. He made him feel close and guided and taken care of. Well, no more of that. No more creature comforts, no more begging for attention. At the end of the day, the only thing that mattered was Sherlock himself. He kept himself right. He helped himself. He decided what was best for himself. No one else.

He would no longer try to forge connections. John meant nothing to him. He was in this for himself, only himself.

 

He got out of bed and went into the bathroom and smiled into the mirror. He took a shower. He brushed his teeth. He was fucked up.

 

He was surviving. Look how strong he was. Look at him swinging his coat over his shoulders. Look at him covering his eyes with sunglasses. Impenetrable. The sun pierced him. Two steps out of Baker Street and he stopped, folded his arms about himself, and crumpled.

The tears were slow; he was not sobbing. Strong, strong, strong, he thought to himself. Walk around London. His beloved London. Free after eighteen years of resentment. One foot in front of the next. He could face a blade; he could face anything. Push on. Look how brave. Brave boy. He did it all by himself. Look, Mummy, look!

_No one’s looking._

 

***

 

He felt vacant, base, feral, animal, terrified, triumphant, and exhausted. He had logicked himself out of immediate danger of suicide and survived. It was what he did. Why? Why did he survive and keep this horrendous, empty cycle going? Why couldn’t he just let himself die?

He didn't feel okay. He felt shaky and small, nothing. He had set out to find Lestrade, to reinstate himself, prove his sanity, but now he knew just where to stop off first: where it was always night. It would be easy to find where it had relocated. He always had a foot in the darkness, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who commented on the last chapter, thank you so much, so much. I still am in the process of answering to each of your comments, but in the meantime, I just want to say thank you. I know this is sappy and a bit sentimental, but your comments helped me more than I can say. I sobbed when I saw the first one. I was literally sitting at my computer refreshing my stats page, and then I wasn’t alone anymore. Thank you. 
> 
> Also, pssttt—I can promise more action, John's perspective, and eventual (though untraditional) Johnlock in the coming chapters, but it will be gradual and there is a lot of pain planned for both Sherlock and John.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stood there over the man in his white coat like a helpless angel. He was by no means pure; he had seen too much, done too much. But he could not understand. He could not understand the depths of hell that existed in some people, so he could not give them compassion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Guys, there is a pretty graphic self-harm scene and domestic disturbance in here. I don't usually like to put trigger warnings in, because I don't like to give the plot away, but I felt like my writing was too instructional this time around and I don't want people to do what I write. I want you to treat yourselves kindly and with patience and compassion.

The plastic vase holding a fake flower on the sleeping patient’s plain bedside table, the linoleum floor, and the white walls all communicated tranquility and normalcy, but it was too forced and unmoving to be believed, John thought for the first time. He had, of course, thought this about the hospital his old man had died at (had, in fact, been glad that the sterile environment prevented him from collapsing into tears)—but his place of work had been regarded clinically until now, which, he supposed wryly, was the problem.

The steady beeping of the patient’s heart monitor and the smell of disinfectant did nothing to soothe John’s nerves. He shifted his toes in his brogues. They were sweaty underneath the hardy leather. He fussed with his white coat. He didn’t normally wear one when practicing. Strictly speaking, this wasn’t his part of the hospital. After his injury in the war, he’d been unable to practice as a surgeon, and had decided to work as a GP, away from the triage environment of the emergency room, which he had thought mimicked an active war zone too closely. The old boring life suited him. He liked a simple life. Well, he did in a certain way. He liked going on cases and coming home to Baker Street with Sherlock, and he liked having a motherly landlady. He liked danger and the assurance that followed. Yes, he was alive, yes, it was not all a dream, yes, be careful with your life, and with Sherlock’s.

Lately, though, there had been some complications. He raised his eyes and finally looked, not at the room’s décor, but at the patient’s face.

It was a deathly thin, pale face, shadows under the eyes, mottled, crusty, greying skin stretched over protruding cheekbones, much like Sherlock’s. John frowned, letting his eyes drift lower to the patient’s bony arms. An IV was attached to the patient’s hand, creating a decent sized bruise. He could see, now, similar bruises at the crooks of the patient’s arms, red, pockmarked, ugly. He adjusted his coat again, hoping no one would notice him, and lifted the patient’s blanket.

Red scratches on the patient’s chest. Caused by the patient’s own yellowing nails. What drove people to this? What drove people to obliterate their own existence, slowly, seemingly without conviction? It was as though they wanted to commit suicide but chose instead to live in this shrunken state. God, why didn’t they just kill themselves? No… God, he didn’t mean that…. Feeling sick, John covered the patient up again, as though he were trying to respect the dead, and looked in the patient’s file. He was here for a drug overdose. Self-harming tendencies had been noted by a careful female hand. No family. No emergency contact. The name was probably fake, plucked from a fake or stolen ID. Once he was released, he would most likely be out on the streets again. Another overdose, or a petty stabbing, or the winter cold… it was too easy to imagine this man’s death. He was no one, lost already to this world.

John stood there over the man in his white coat like a helpless angel. He was by no means pure; he had seen too much, done too much. But he could not understand. He could not understand the depths of hell that existed in some people, so he could not give them compassion.

He stood there a moment longer, then walked away.

 

Much like the Diogenes, which governed itself by the law of silence, the Clarence House cannibal’s gambling house had a rule: it was always night. Very few lamps were lit here. No one talked of morning. Day did not contrast night. There was no cycle of light and dark here; it was always night, and time stood still, forever. Out of respect to the cannibal, patrons never spoke as if they thought they would leave the house (it was rumored she had been a duchess, long ago, cast out of the royal family, forgotten now). Some actually did not leave, falling prey to the cannibal’s appetite. She was old, nearly one hundred, and in her age needed more and more sustenance. Coming to her house meant playing by her rules; people were aware it was nothing more than a trap. They knew they might never leave.

Secreted deep below the consciousness of the average Londoner, in the dank bowels of this royal house, Sherlock Holmes sat at a round table with three others. He struck an intense figure, his dark curls and pale, pale skin—his long black coat and severe cheekbones—long limbs coiled and powerful—his light, iridescent eyes flashing in the dark. He never spoke a word. He looked hungry, hollow, muted, formidable. Elegant and ruthless. Today more than ever, the wild in him was heightened. He could go anywhere. He had no limits. He was lost, himself—could no longer become lost. Everywhere was home. Everything belonged to him.

The cannibal and two others sat with him at the table. It was rumored that the others were travellers. Sherlock didn’t care much. They were probably not travellers. The word was a euphemism for a much less innocuous trade. He felt an affinity with these people. He sat in the dim light, blending into the dark, and remembered the days he lay in alleyways, a needle full of clarity in his arm. He thought of the days he loitered deep into the night, people hurrying past to their homes, treading paths and possibilities and meetings as they went. He stayed behind. Each night he froze in a different part of London. A different awning, a different alleyway. A different bench. No one gave him a glance. He had been invisible. Would always be invisible in a way.

A young Ms Wiggins, the cannibal’s assistant, dealt the cards. People emerged from the shadows to watch, crowding around the table. The cannibal, grey hair hanging from her head in oily strands, bet two houses in Leinster Gardens. She smiled, mouth gaping. The other two bet a gold ring and a watch. Sherlock bet a pile of cash. Simple. Detached.

He was mad, the others thought. The spectators, the other two men—they eyed his silence, his blankness, furtively. No one ever knew what to make of him, even here. They thought he was crazy, and he smiled, baring his teeth. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. But that was exactly why he should do things.

By the end of the game he had won the ring, watch, and the two hidden houses in Leinster Gardens, and he couldn’t remember at all why he ached dully, right at his core. He was blank, searing triumph. There was no room for pain, not even its memory. There was nothing to remember. Nothing at all. He felt very light. He was cast into a remote corner of his never-ending soul. The vista of his mind no longer contained his mind palace. Here, far away, it was bare and cold and snowy. There was nothing but clear horizon. He liked it here. Here he was nothing and no one. It was easy to keep his head down, to get on with things. It was easy to be pure when he was no one.

There was a smattering of polite applause. He collected his winnings and stood, gathering his coat around him. The cannibal placed a hand on his shoulder. He could feel her nails digging into his flesh. “It’s been a while. Would you stay for a bit, my dear?” she leered, licking her lips.

Every time he came here, the cannibal extended the same invitation. When he was younger, he had seen the appeal in this never-ending night, had been good friends with the cannibal. But now he placed a hand on hers and gently removed it. He shook his head at the cannibal and winked. She smiled and inclined her head. She understood his silence. He had been silent when he was younger, aching with pain, muteness stoppering his heart. Now, older, he had not spoken a word in two weeks. He would not now, in this pure, controlled, discreet place. He would not until he needed to be someone, until he needed to exist. He took the keys she held out and left expediently.

On the street, back in society. No one noticed. The two men he had beaten did not come after him. He was free. Flight is nothing but the ease of control.

 

“John,” Ella said, smiling, “it’s good to see you.”

John walked into Ella’s office slowly. Everything was as it had been the last time he’d been to therapy, before meeting Sherlock. The clean space, the elegant planes of the dark hardwood floor and the floor to ceiling windows. The warmth of the dark walnut desk, the white chairs by the windows, the sweeping curtains. He took a seat across from her, his usual seat.

“Yeah, hi,” he said. “Erm… I’m sorry to have disappeared like that. I probably should have told you I was okay and I wasn’t coming back for more sessions.”

“It’s all right, John,” Ella said. “Clean slate, okay?”

“Right, right.”

“So, how can I help you?”

“Well, it’s my… it’s not for me. It’s for Sherlock—he’d never go to therapy, so… here I am, instead of him. You remember him, right? My flatmate?”

“I remember,” Ella said gently. “I’ve been following the blog.”

“Okay. Well, he’s been… not doing so great…”

Ella waited.

“He’s been… self-harming. I _tried_ to help but I—maybe this is normal for him. He’s been getting distant. I tried to help him, but he—he keeps leaving. In his room, in his mind palace. So I’m trying to give him his space, but…”

“It hurts that he’s gotten distant after you discovered his self-harming tendencies?” Ella asked.

John exhaled. “Look, this isn’t about me. I just want to know how I can help him.”

“John, as a doctor, you know that the caretaker’s needs must be taken care of, too.”

“Well,” he bit out, “it would help _me_ to know how I can help _him_.”

He could see her weighing her options.

“All right, John,” Ella said finally, “let’s talk about Sherlock. How did you discover that he self harms? And is it cutting or burning or scratching or anything else?”

“It’s cutting, well, to the best of my knowledge it’s cutting.” He grimaced, remembering the cuts engraved into his friend’s arm. “I—he was crying. I mean, I came home from work and he was just sort of hyperventilating in his room, I could hear it. So I went in and he cried for a long time. Then he let me bandage his arm and then I asked him why he did it. And he didn’t answer. But he… in that moment, he _liked_ me, and the next morning he was Sherlock again, you know? Untouchable. He… he left and didn’t come back for the whole day after I tried to ask him questions. And then—” he cut himself off.

“What John?” Ella asked.

“Er—I—look, I really just want some ideas for how to… approach him and get him to stop,” John said. “I… do you really need to know everything?”

“No, I suppose not,” Ella said. “Tell me how long it’s been since you’ve found out and what you’ve been doing so far.”

“It’s been about a month. I just leave him alone, I guess, but I do bandage him up if he needs it. He’s been so distant, though. Like he rarely leaves his room. And about a week after, I found him… I found him…”

Ella leaned back, gave him time.

“Never mind,” John said. “I just don’t get it. He’s got everything. He has, you know… he has his scary powerful brother, and he’s famous and brilliant, and… I don’t know. Why do people do it? It just doesn’t make sense to me. How do people do that to themselves?”

Ella was quiet. “I think you ought to ask him.”

“Well, I can’t can I? There’s a—a whole world in his head, and he’s gone into it. I can’t reach him.” John half laughed. This was how therapy usually went. It was a gradual breakdown of his communication skills and then they said goodbye and he went on his way. God. And then—“Oh, god. I’ve just realized we haven’t spoken a word to each other in two weeks. That’s odd, isn’t it? We live together.”

Ella gave him a look. “I think,” she said, “the problem with Sherlock might be that you’re doing all you can. People either want help or they don’t. But don’t put it on him to ask for help. Many people can’t. They can either accept it or reject it, but they can’t ask. At least not at first.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t give him space? What if he rejects me?”

“You’ve always been available to him in the past, haven’t you? Why shouldn’t you be available now? Keep being available to him, John.”

 

No one bothered Sherlock as he swept through the New Scotland Yard offices. They were used to seeing him, and if they didn’t know who he was by now, his purposeful stride convinced them to leave him alone.

It was easy from there to break into Lestrade’s office and find the file of his current case (always left right on top of the desk, several biscuit crumbs on it—Lestrade was too trusting). He solved it in five minutes. Lestrade would be at the crime scene, still trying to find details he’d missed. Sherlock hailed a cab, scribbled the address down and showed it to the cabbie. The ride was spent in silence.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, striding past a sputtering Donovan, “it was the neighbor’s wife.”

Lestrade turned. “Ah, bollocks,” he said. “Donovan, bring Mrs Talbot back in for interrogation and we’ll take it from there. Anderson, get forensics to confirm Mrs Talbot did it.” Anderson sneered something that Sherlock ignored. Doubtless it was something predictable like _freak._ Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. “What are you doing here anyway? Didn’t John say you were—”

“John has a tendency to overreact,” Sherlock said smoothly, because in all honesty, he had no idea what John might have told Lestrade.

“He said you were, uh… on edge?” Lestrade said, squinting at him, as if that might help him deduce Sherlock’s state of mind. “He didn’t say much, though.”

“On edge,” Sherlock repeated calmly, introspectively. “Implies very little, which means rather a lot.”

“What?” Lestrade said.

“Oh, never mind, Lestrade. Either Donovan or forensics will bring back the evidence you need. I solved it from the case file. Honestly.”

Lestrade had no reaction to Sherlock’s admission that he had been in his office. “Yeah, how _did_ you know it was Mrs Talbot?”

Sherlock launched into his deductions. “Really, Lestrade,” he finished, “the clues were all there, written down.”

“So… Mrs Talbot…” Lestrade said, scratching his head, mouth open.

“ _Yes,_ Lestrade, Mrs Talbot.”

“Wow… yeah, wow.”

“ _O_ kay,” Sherlock said. “Text me when forensics or Donovan confirms.” He pulled his leather gloves on and walked away.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called after him, holding up his phone, “you were right! It was Mrs Talbot!”

Sherlock smirked and walked back to Lestrade. “Forensics confirmed?”

“God, it was just in the paint!” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “It was right in front of our faces!”

“You need me,” Sherlock reminded the older man.

Lestrade looked helpless. “God help me,” he said. “I do.”

“So it’s done, then,” Sherlock said. “Text me when you’ve a new case.”

“Wait, Sherlock… just, look, I’d be stupid if I didn’t at least ask… are you clean?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes.”

Lestrade nodded once. He clapped Sherlock on the back. “Alright then. I’ll text you.”

It had all gone to plan. Sherlock put his sunglasses back on.

 

Returning to Baker Street felt bitter like defeat on his tongue. Alone again. A strange sadness surged up and engulfed him. He clamped his mouth shut as he walked up the stairs. Eating seemed impossible. He was sure he’d end up spitting it out, if he even got food past his lips.

He wasn’t sure what the fixation on food meant. Just that he was hungry but he didn’t—couldn’t—eat. He stared into the fridge, itching in his body, feeling restless. He could not eat! He forbade himself to eat, even drink water. He would not consume and he would not waste. If he ate—if he ate—

He passed through the darkened hall to his bedroom. He stood there silently, unmoving. He breathed through his nose. He would not even open his mouth. He could not eat! Should he eat? No one would know—he’d take a bite from each leftover dish, might go down to Mrs Hudson’s and take some crumbs from the plates of biscuits she left out. He felt lightheaded. He should eat—but he would not. He would not. He never knew what he was allowed to eat—had never known. He never knew what was _his_ to eat. It was all John’s or Mrs Hudson’s. He could not make himself something either. The ingredients were not his. Besides, he didn’t deserve to eat. He couldn’t even eat a piece of bread.

He felt distracted to the point of anger. He buried his face in his hands. Something was wrong. He thought about harming himself. Hitting until he bruised, scratching until he bled.

He had not cut in two and a half weeks. He had been too depressed to do so. He rolled his sleeve up. The scabs on his right forearm had healed and left angry red scars trailing across tired skin. He could not eat. He needed to be hurt. He could not bear it when his wounds had healed.

The new fixation allowed him to breathe easier, still through his nose. He lay back on the bed and reached out to turn the lamp on. The interaction with Lestrade today had left him feeling inexplicably guilty. It was as though the more he did, the more he stood up for himself, the more the bad feelings built up.

He must do things. He must not sink lower. He must resist.

Food forgotten, he examined his arm. Typically he did not like to cut over old scars, unless he was trying to create one that was raised. He’d discovered that if he sliced through a raised scar, the new cut would also become raised even if it weren’t deep, as though the keloid tissue were spreading.

Deciding where he would cut next was almost as calming as the cutting itself. His hands felt weak, his wrists achy. Squeezing them did not help. His hand flopped about weakly for a razor blade. Once he grasped his blades, the sensation went away. His hands were always steady when he cut.

He spent a good amount of time just staring at his wrist and at the blade, adjusting his grip on it. It wasn’t that he was hesitating or trying not to cut; he had never in his life picked up a razor without cutting. He hesitated before picking up a blade, not after: the act of picking up the blade was the deciding act. It was the point of no return, the steadying of his hands. So no, he was not hesitating. He knew what his next actions would be. There was only one thing left for him, and that calmed him. He stared at his wrist, letting his body breathe, feel. He always took his time when he cut. It was a luxury. Cutting was an intensely physical act and it would not be satisfying if he did not allow his transport the attention it deserved.

Finally, he was ready. He started out gently, grazing the blade over the skin near the crook of his arm. At first it didn’t seem like he’d broken the skin, but then tiny droplets of blood sprung up barely staining his skin pink. Now more. Again. Deeper. He placed his blade carefully on the next clean patch of skin. Cutting was like playing his violin. It took control. Each of his fingers on his blade—the way he balanced the bow in his hand—influenced the cut that was made. The depth, the length, whether it slid through skin or merely scraped it off. He closed his eyes, moved his left hand, feeling the blade slide through his skin, feeling his heart stop, feeling the adrenaline course through his veins. He was alive. He could breathe. He was calm, his mind centered impossibly on one thing only—the small point of contact where the blade met his body. The clarity proved his mind’s ability, focused him after all the murk, the drifting.

He was bleeding. Droplets of blood welled up, flooded each cut, and dribbled down the side of his arm. He pressed a tissue to his forearm, enjoying the way straight crimson lines painted the tissue. Blood was good.

Blood was good because it was proof of his punishment, proof that he was reigning himself in, controlling the chaos. The more things he did, the more he needed to be punished. He ought to be useless. He ought to be the filthy drug addict who’d lain, dazed and high and senseless in the streets. He ought to be left behind.

Now he was no longer bed ridden, had blocked everything out. He was a great detective. He had a great mind. He was taking care of himself. He had showered and brushed his teeth. No one would tell from looking at him that he had once had no place to live, that once upon a time, he had been the scum of the earth, hated since his birth.

But he was guilty. So, so guilty. He didn’t know if it was because—but the more he did to help himself, and the more he did in general, the more the guilt built up.

So he cut because he was guilty. If he didn’t, the guilt would build up until he broke.

He cut himself. Each cut settled him in his transport and made him forget himself. He was just a body. Did it matter what had happened to him in the past? No, not really. He was his own person, removed from himself, from his childhood, his origin. He was no one, really. The world was big. He thought about the strings of connections people made, the predictable possibilities that sprung from these strings. He cut the strings that connected him to the past. His future was unknown. He had a blank slate. He had no past. _Nothing,_ he thought to himself.

He pressed tissues down and let the bleeding stop. He counted the cuts. Fifteen of them, angry and red, carved into skin. The skin surrounding the cuts was hot and flushed red. He shook the arm, relishing the stinging. Clenched the hand before him into a fist, feeling it shake, feeling the deep ache. He set the blade down.

The hands before him were not his own. The hands stuck out before his line of sight like two ugly weeds. The only thing that was his was an ache. This was good.

“I’m sorry.”

He turned slowly. John was standing in the darkened hall by the doorway. He felt vacant, light, high. He wondered what he looked like.

“What are you sorry for?” he asked, short, controlled, and perfect. He folded his sleeves down.

It somehow always came down to this. John coming home, Sherlock coming home. John would always find Sherlock doing something self-destructive. Sherlock could see the insanity of the repetition and thought—impossibly, crazily—of never cutting again just to spite the routine.

“That I didn’t… that I didn’t try harder…” John stepped into the bedroom, into the light.

“No matter,” Sherlock said. “I’m fine.”

John had his medical bag with him. “Can I?” he asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock said. It didn’t matter either way. The way he felt—cleansed, controlled, nothing—it felt like he could be dismembered and he wouldn’t have any sense of his body being invaded on.

John kneeled on the floor at the side of the bed between Sherlock’s legs and reached out carefully, lifting Sherlock’s sleeve. He was laid bare to John—all fifteen new cuts and a lifetime of scars, no matter how light—but he didn’t feel any different. He didn’t feel vulnerable. He just felt nothing. It felt great.

“It’s not bad,” Sherlock said. “They don’t need to be bandaged.”

John frowned. “Even so, I’d feel better if they were.”

Sherlock waved a hand in acquiescence. He felt like smiling, laughing. He didn’t.

John cleaned dried blood from his arm. The cool dabs on his arm tickled. Sherlock didn’t pay any attention to what John was doing, though. He focused on his face, which looked pinched and weary. John’s lips were pressed together. His eyes looked red. Oh. John was crying.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he should say anything, but he did. “Why are you crying?”

John looked up, startled. “What? No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock said.

John huffed, looking back down at Sherlock’s bandages. “Right, you know everything.”

“Yes, so… why are you crying?”

“I’m not _really_ crying, Sherlock,” John said, but his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed together even harder. He took a sharp breath.

“John,” Sherlock said, “you’re ruining my pain high, so either stop crying and bandage my arm like you want to, or leave.”

John’s grip on his arm tightened for a painful moment, and then he let go, sitting back. “You’re a dickhead,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m crying because I’m _sad_ , Sherlock!”

The words jolted something in Sherlock. “You’re sad,” he repeated, staring down at John. A swirling anger was rising in him. “ _You’re_ sad.”

“Is that so wrong?” John said. “Look at you. God, why do you do it?”

Sherlock reeled back. “You were nice—” he began, but shook his head. He stood up, towering over John, the bandages dangling off his arm. “Your disgust in me does not change who I am,” he clipped out, his iridescent eyes flashing. “I’ve always been this way and you liked me, you were attracted to me. I should have known you were not special. You are like _the rest_ —the stupid imbeciles who can’t face the truth. _This is who I am_. Get over it.”

He turned to leave but John grabbed his arm, his right one, the wounded one, getting to his feet. “No,” John said, his eyes shining, “Sherlock, I won’t get over it! I’m your only friend, Sherlock—I need to help you!”

“ _I’m your only friend,”_ Sherlock mocked, wresting his arm back. “Get over yourself. I don’t need your—your everyday concerns, your plebian worries. I’m not a duty or a—a charity case, Dr Watson, and I am not your friend. You are not my friend.”

“What—but— _how_ can you do this to yourself?”

“I can and I have for a long time,” Sherlock answered standing tall. The anger in him swelled. “It’s easy—here.” He took a razor blade. “Here, take it! _Take it._ ” Sherlock grabbed John’s left hand, pressing the blade into it. “ _Take it.”_

“Sherlock!” John cried. His hand was bleeding. Sherlock didn’t care. He needed to prove his point.

“Do you have it? Is it gripped between your fingers?” Sherlock grabbed John’s left hand and his right wrist. “Come on! It’s easy! All you have to do is—”

“Sherlock!” John cried again. He was fighting back, trying to push his arms away from each other, trying to stamp on Sherlock’s feet, to smash his head back against Sherlock’s jaw, but Sherlock was standing behind him, his entire body bearing down on him—

Sherlock pushed with superhuman force and the blade hit John’s arm, skittering across it. It barely drew any blood but John was shaking, shaking. “There,” Sherlock growled into John’s ear. “See? It’s not so perverted, not so twisted as you think, Dr Watson.”

“I—Sherlock—” John panted. His eyes were wounded, his mouth open in shock. He dropped the blade.

Sherlock spun John around and released him. “Look at it!” he said. “It’s just a cut.”

“Oh my god, IT IS NOT JUST A CUT! You—you could have KILLED me, Sherlock!”

“No, _I wouldn’t have_ ,” Sherlock growled. “I’m _in control_ , _I’m always in control!_ It’s just a cut! Look at it!”

“You could have killed me!” John said again. “What. The _bloody_ HELL—what the FUCK is wrong with you?” He turned from Sherlock. “You could have killed me.”

Sherlock laughed at John’s back. It was an ugly sound. “Do you really think I would kill you? Do you really think I’m dangerous in that way? That I would kill without an assignment, that I would kill in cold blood? _You’re_ a killer. You know what it is to cross into that territory.”

John crossed his arms, his back still facing Sherlock.

“You think _cutter_ and you think dangerous. You think unhinged. You think _on edge_.”

“No—”

Sherlock stared at John’s back, heart pounding. “You go to Lestrade—I can’t handle cases anymore—who said that John? Did I say that?”

“Sher—”

“No, _you_ said that. Not me. I never said it.”

“Sher—”

“ _I was fine_. I was fine, and _you don’t get to decide what’s best for me,_ ” Sherlock hissed, eyes wide. “I DECIDE WHAT’S BEST FOR ME!”

John laughed, shaking his head.

“Turn around,” Sherlock said. “God, you can’t even face me. You can’t face the freak.”

“IT’S OKAY THAT YOU CUT, SHERLOCK!” John yelled, turning, finally, and his face was frightening. “I don’t give a damn what the hell you do, you leaving poison in the food so I can’t eat it and—breaking the furniture and shooting the walls! I DON’T GIVE A DAMN! NOT ANYMORE!”

It was like a switch had been flipped. John took a step back from Sherlock, raising his hands. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t care anymore.”

“John,” Sherlock started. His eyes were nervous, shy. “John—” (but what would he even say? He was never good with angry people. Maybe he should beg.)

“No, Sherlock,” John said. His face seemed suddenly slack. “You’re free to do whatever you want. You always were. Did you know, Sherlock, the reason why you don’t understand why I was crying—it’s not because I’m unreasonable, okay? It’s because you—you don’t get it, do you? It’s because that’s what friends do. They care about each other. And I was going to—to be there for y—but I can’t. Not anymore. You—you think cutting makes you… who you are, I guess. But I can’t.” He was backing away, hands up, his bleeding forearms bared to Sherlock. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock felt inexplicably bereft. “Where are you going? Why?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I’ll be back to get my things. I—I wish it weren’t like this. I wish I could help you.”

“You can’t help me,” Sherlock said. “This is just how I am.”

John bit his lip, hesitated by the stairs. “Do you understand, Sherlock? Do you get that what you just did was wrong?”

Tears sprung unbidden, unmeditated into Sherlock’s eyes. “But—that’s—” _that’s the way things are done… that’s how you get someone to…_

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I have to go. Please…” John took a deep breath, shook his head. “Please eat, okay?”

Sherlock gathered himself one last time. He didn’t know how to get John to stay. He didn’t know anything. He stood up straight and reminded himself that life is a war. “I don’t need your help,” he whispered, so strong through it all. “I did it before by myself. I don’t need you. I never need you.”

John nodded. He left. Sherlock watched him go.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Harry. He stared at the screen, her name, Harry Watson, burning into his eyes. Could he do it? Could he do it one more time? Could he really do anything? He couldn’t for Sherlock.

John walked and walked and walked. All the fury had left him the moment Sherlock, like a goddamned child, had asked where John was going. He sank. He walked and walked slowly. He was… tired, and he had to get out of Baker Street. His sleeve chafed and scratched at and irritated the wound he—or rather, Sherlock—had made. He tried not to swing his arm so much, held it in his pocket. He was sad and empty and—had that been domestic violence? Had it been—malevolent?

It was a fucked up situation and he needed to get out. He got to Regent's Park and found that he wanted to cry so he went into the park and kept walking. If he kept walking, he could keep going, like a soldier. It was a fucked up situation and the mature part of him told him no one was to blame.

He flexed his left hand, the cut on his palm reopening and bleeding slowly. The wounds Sherlock had given him were discreet. No one noticed them. It was a nice day. The sun was out. The flowers were in full bloom. He was so sorry. The beauty of it all made him feel insignificant. Sherlock was like this magnificent day. He was beautiful and John was just a drifter swept up in Sherlock’s world.

He drifted at the edges of the park’s open-air theater…. The way Sherlock acted—like he or John would leave any moment—the _shyness_ in his eyes—the tears. Sherlock was—John felt empty—innocent. He was not a perpetrator of a terrible crime. He was innocent.

He sat down hard. All the air deflated from him, and all that was left of him was failure. He didn’t hide his face or look down. He was stunned by misery in the way that misery can be violent, ruthless, consuming. He looked at his feet, still in his classic English brogues—shoes for the working gentleman—pressing down on gravel. He ought not to wear them anymore. He looked down into the stage. It resembled a pit for fighting, a gladiator pit.

People were cruel by nature and that was, John thought, where theater had originated. People liked to point and laugh at drama—at Oedipus and his mother, at Romeo and Juliet, and so on, and the plays ended each night—died—but they were never solved, and people pointed and laughed at the same things generation after generation.

His dad had died of cancer. John had been his dad’s only family to watch him die; John was the giving one in his family. When Harry had come out as a lesbian, his dad had come out as homophobic. Battle lines were drawn. John’s mother became more and more worn and wrinkled and creased each year she sided with Harry and endured her husband’s siege.

John had taken both sides. He was a nurturing person. He’d always understood, fundamentally, that this was what people needed most. They needed someone to listen to them, to validate their feelings, to give purpose to their work and lives. And Harry’s coming out had not, John thought, started anything horrible, nothing that he had really needed to side on. It was just a father-daughter relationship gone wrong, the way most of them were screwed up from the start. So John gave Harry care and he had let his dad rail on about Harry from the time she was fourteen to his last breath; he had sat by his dad’s hospital bed, had nodded and smiled at his dad’s bigotry and got him ice chips, and then when it was over, rung the nurse.

He realized now, shaking his arm to unstick his sleeve from his wound, he’d never been hurt before. People around him got hurt and he watched them and cared for them. He was whatever they needed.

He rolled his sleeve up in the solitude of the theater. The cut on his right forearm was not deep, had not even really bled. Instead, the blade had skidded along his skin. A thin line of red had risen up but not swelled over. It was more like someone had taken a very fine pen and drawn an uneven, dotted battle line. He was surprised at how much and how little it hurt. Just this little tearing of the outer layers of skin. It stung—not too much, but it was a constant aching reminder of how _dull_ he felt after his fight with Sherlock. He suddenly believed that this dullness was the worst sort of pain because it was eating away at him. It made him feel sluggish, helpless.

He watched Harry and his parents and they didn’t watch him. For the first time, he wondered if that was because they didn’t care about him, because—he was never hurt and he only watched, so maybe they’d just written him off. Maybe he’d never been hurt—because Harry’s coming out must have hurt, must have created ripples of pain that he, John, had been insensitive to—so he wasn’t really part of the family.

But Sherlock had hurt him—and now John understood pain.

But that wasn’t healthy. That was extreme. Surely that hadn’t been Sherlock’s intention when he’d forced John to cut himself. Surely Sherlock had been—swept away by his—anger, or his—depression. John just didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to be sad, why that had sparked Sherlock’s anger. Maybe Sherlock could _see_ John, more than he could see himself. After all, he had seen that John’s limp was psychosomatic and that he had been to Afghanistan, could read the pauses between John’s words. He saw the steel in him, knew he was a perfect shot…. Maybe Sherlock had seen how John had first tried to help Sherlock, but then had given him his space, because maybe that was the easy thing to do….

Sherlock was so strong, even if he was broken. Maybe John couldn’t help him. John didn’t know how to help. He could go back to Baker Street, but that would be lunacy. He could try to help Sherlock, but maybe Sherlock didn’t need help. Maybe Sherlock didn’t need him. Maybe Sherlock thought he was a hindrance.

He had tried, though, for Harry, hadn’t he? Or was that more of the same? He let her call him when she was drunk and he let her blame him for her problems, and when she was sober, he let her blow off some steam so she wouldn’t feel the bottle’s calling so strongly. Maybe that wasn’t helping. Maybe Harry just called him because he was the only one she had left—her friends had been Clara’s friends, and who was going to side with the drunk when they split?

He didn’t know what to do or how to help and that was unusual. He thought this was suddenly all too complicated. Shadows were getting longer but the sun was still as sharp. It was giving him a migraine. He shuffled his feet on the gravel, stared blankly at the bare stage.

His phone buzzed. He half expected it to be Sherlock with an apology or a plead for him to come home….

It was Harry. He stared at the screen, her name, Harry Watson, burning into his eyes. Could he do it? Could he do it one more time? Could he really do anything? He couldn’t for Sherlock. He’d lost Sherlock.

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

“Yeah, Harry.”

“Johnny, I fucking hate you.”

She was drunk. “Yeah? What else is new?” John asked.

“I broke up w-with Mary. Sh'said I was a drunk.”

“You are a drunk, Harry.”

“Fuck you,” Harry said weakly.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Sherlock and I had a huge fight.”

“Hmmm, poor Johnny. Can’t make his boyfriends stay.”

John paused. “Hey, can I stay at your place for a couple of days?”

“Sure thing, Johnny,” Harry yawned. “anyth-thing for my lil broth…”

There was silence. Damn, Harry had probably passed out again. Well, she’d technically agreed. And thank god. He was starting to think…. He stopped himself. He was family. Of course she'd agreed.

 _Staying at Harry’s for a few days,_ he texted Sherlock.

He waited five minutes. He didn’t get a reply. He sat in the park till dark, feeling the weight of his body press into the ground. He didn't get a reply.

He texted Lestrade, _I’m away for a few days. Sherlock’s okay to have cases again._

He texted Mrs Hudson, _I’m away for a few days. Make sure Sherlock doesn’t die of starvation?_

The two responses came within instances of each other.

Lestrade had written, _Cheers mate, but I’ve already got him sniffing round a crime scene!_

And Mrs Hudson had written, _Of course dear! He’s just left with that dishy Detective Inspector, that silver fox you know… but I sent him off with a sandwich! Where are you off to?_

He didn’t answer either of the texts. Sherlock would be fine. It was cold and dark. He wept.

 


	9. Chapter 9

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR JOHN H. WATSON

            20th March

            Untitled

 

Hi everyone. It feels odd coming here and talking about stuff that doesn’t relate to Sherlock. But anyway, I just wanted to say that I might not update so frequently since I’m living with my sister at the moment. It feels odd, I know, to be posting this here like some sort of formal announcement. Like it’s really the end of something. But I swear it’s not. I just… I guess it just felt right to write something here.

Living with Harry is a whirlwind, just like living with Sherlock is. Just in a different way. Nothing to say that’s not completely pointless and depressing. Just. I won’t be updating very frequently. If you want to know how he’s doing, you know where his blog is.

 

COMMENTS DISABLED

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update. More to come… I pretty much know how this story ends, but real life has been crazy! Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

 

**THE SUNDAY TELEGRAPH**

**Sherlock Holmes’ Article on Ash in _Journal of Forensic Science_ Selected to Win Prestigious British Academy of Forensic Sciences Award**

 

**THE GUARDIAN**

**Sherlock Holmes Scheduled as Keynote Speaker at Cambridge Forensics Conference**

**THE INDEPENDENT**

**Sherlock Holmes To Be Honoured by Scotland Yard**

**THE DAILY MAIL**

**Gay Web Detective Boyfriends SPLIT?! Watson hasn’t been seen on crime scene in three months, says source. Sherlock Holmes to be honoured by Scotland Yard.**

**THE DAILY MAIL**

**Is Sherlock Holmes TOO THIN??? Nearly passed out at Tesco, woman says. Split from blogger-boyfriend John Watson.**

**THE SUN**

**Holmes’s ex-live-in-blogger seen with drunk woman!! Looked tired himself.**

 

**THE DAILY MAIL**

**John Watson’s BREAKUP blog post unpacked: “It’s the end of something.”**

 

“God, Harry, stop reading me those,” John groaned. He buried his head in his arms.

“You wrote that blog post,” Harry said. They were sitting at her kitchen table, which was overflowing with the newspapers Harry had purchased. “What did you expect?”

“Yeah, yeah,” John mumbled. “You’re right. Just. I’m _not_ gay. And Sherlock wasn’t my boyfriend.”

Harry snorted. “I can’t believe I’m mentioned!” she said, flipping through a copy of The Sun. “I wonder if there’s a picture of me?”

“Yeah, like that’s something to be proud of. Your drunk arse all over the news.”

Harry sniffed.

“ _God_ , people think you’re my _girlfriend._ How fucked up is that?”

Harry ignored him.

John wilted back onto the table. “God,” he said. “He must not be eating.”

 _At least,_ he thought, laughing sadly, _there isn’t a headline that says, “Suspicious Cuts On Holmes’ Arm.”_

Harry walked to the fridge and got herself a beer.

“Harry…” John said.

“Fuck off, John. It’s just beer.”

“You’ve got work tomorrow, Harry, and you’re about to be fired as it is.”

“Just because your boyfriend’s more productive now that you’re gone…” Harry shot back.

“Yeah,” John said, putting his hands up. Another time he might have tried harder. “Yeah, alright. Do what you want.”

He watched her open the bottle and take a long sip. Her hands shook. He frowned.

Harry stopped drinking and looked at him with sudden clarity. “Go home, John,” she said.

He frowned, looking around her small flat. It was messy. Not like Baker Street, which was messy in a way that showed Sherlock’s personality. Harry’s flat was just blandly, mindlessly messy. “Why don’t I help you clean some of this stuff up, hm?” he said.

“No, Johnny, go home,” Harry said.

“What? Why?”

“Aside from the fact that you randomly came over one day, saying I’d agreed to you living here a couple days, and I can’t remember agreeing?” Harry said. “It’s been _three weeks,_ Johnny. I can’t bring anyone home when you’re always here. And I can tell you don’t want to be here. I see you checking your phone every minute or so to see if he or Mrs Hudson has texted you. I know you’d rather be needed there than here, Johnny.”

“You just want to drink without me here because I make you feel guilty,” John said.

“Fine, okay,” Harry said, putting her hands up. “Stay. Clean my flat, don’t clean my flat. Make your back hurt sleeping on the couch. Do whatever you want. I don’t care. I’ll be drinking whether you’re here or not.”

John sighed. He trudged to the couch through Harry’s dirty laundry and lay down. He could still smell the alcohol from here and was reminded of his father. Harry was right. He was waiting for Mrs Hudson or Sherlock to text him—hell, he was even waiting for Lestrade to text him, asking him to help him handle Sherlock.

But there had been nothing. Sherlock seemed to be doing fine, better even, without him. He wondered if this was his life now. A bland boring flat, a boring job, and a weary, alcoholic sister. He realized, even if he wasn’t there, Sherlock’s life went on, and because of that, so did everyone else’s: Lestrade’s, Mrs Hudson’s, Sally’s, even Anderson’s. He hadn’t updated his blog in more than a month, but Sherlock was becoming stronger than ever. John wasn’t needed. And there was nothing in his life for him to write about for his blog now that he didn’t have Sherlock.

He hadn’t explained to Harry why he had suddenly showed up at her doorstep. She never asked—she’d been half drunk when she let him in. He assumed she didn’t care, and the next day, when she’d slept off the alcohol, she’d given him a bleary, surprised look, like she wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there, but wasn’t going to do anything about it.

Despite his sister’s carelessness, he’d been careful to keep his sleeves down at all times until the cut healed over. And now that it had healed, it felt like it had never been there, like all of a sudden, he was living at Harry’s and the time between the army and the present didn’t exist.

Fitfully, his frown carving deep into his forehead, he turned over on the couch, pressing his side into the back. He hugged a pillow to his chest. Harry had a problem with not following through. Every time she said she’d get sober, she didn’t. But what did that matter? John was just as invisible to the world as she was. He lay there until night came and Harry went out. He poured Harry’s alcohol down the sink and began to clean the flat. Not before pouring himself a glass of Harry’s good whiskey, though.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn't been eating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how badly this chapter is written. And that I haven't updated in a while. I just can't seem to write.
> 
> Also, I tried to read the story through from beginning to end, to help me write this chapter... I couldn't make it through. So, I apologize for subjecting you all to this drivel...

He hadn't been eating.

When he was young, his father had been so scary. Standing on the stage in bright lights, listening to some people from London’s government speak (he didn’t know or care who they were) before accepting his award from Scotland Yard, Sherlock wondered if people watching from the audience, or from their televisions at home, could tell this about his past. That he was a broken man. Broken from the start, with nowhere to go.

He had no idea what people thought of him. This wasn’t insecurity, but genuine puzzlement. _He_ knew the image that he wanted to project—had to, to believe he wasn’t nothing—with his coat and curls. But sometimes he just felt removed from his body. Like he was watching himself. And he never knew what to make of himself. He always just seemed… whole.

So—were people afraid of him? Did he seem cold? Arrogant? Untouchable?

Sleek? Posh? Public school?

Wild? Untamed? Dark? He wondered if they saw his affinity to the criminals he chased, and enjoyed fighting.

Or… did they see _him?_ Did the see his fear? His aloneness? Did people want to pity him? Did they see how thin he was? Did they see the long sleeves he wore in the summer? Did they see the emptiness in his eyes?

He wondered if John was watching, what he saw.

He thought no one really knew him. To them he was nothing but a question mark. And because of that, he was strange and untouchable.

Maybe he didn’t know himself either. Everything he said about himself, every attitude he projected, was a lie manufactured for the situation he was in. A chameleon.

He thought he knew why John liked to write so much when he had no talent. Because it kept his facts straight. Somewhere out there, there was a version of the truth that said exactly what John wanted it to say.

He stood there, groomed well, on the stage in the lavish auditorium that belonged to the ancient core of the City of London. Lestrade to his left. A reassuring presence, though he’d never admit it. The podium to his right. An idiot prattling away, saying things about… “public safety”… “what’s right”… “protecting those in need”….

Sherlock let himself drift off. The ideological shit spewing from the public school toff at the podium meant very little to him. It was easy to drift off now. He was a little light headed, but that didn’t matter. A bad moment in the Tesco by the frozen products…. Passed out… he wasn’t eating…. He shook the thought off while reveling in the sensation. He enjoyed feeling light, like his brain could soar.

In his mind, he began to compile a list of himself. Maybe he would start an anonymous blog. He thought, reaching back into his light mind, about his list….

  1. He had never been hospitalized for a mental condition.
  2. He’d never had a friend before John.
  3. He’d never been diagnosed mentally.
  4. He scared therapists off.
  5. He couldn’t attach to them or open up, so they eventually gave up on him.
  6. He didn’t know how to open up to _anyone._ The words got stuck in his throat.
  7. He wanted to be held.
  8. He cut for the first time when he was sixteen.
  9. He didn’t cut for five years after that. Because he was doing drugs.
  10. He took it up again when he was twenty-one. And never really stopped.
  11. He’d entered university late—when he was twenty-one—due to his drug years. He also graduated late, but with high honors.
  12. He was a graduate chemist who remained afraid of his professors.
  13. He didn’t like authority.
  14. He was fearless but so afraid.
  15. He lived for solving crimes.
  16. There was nothing besides that.
  17. It was the only way he could participate in the world. Always on the outskirts.
  18. He felt that the world didn’t hold much for him.
  19. At the same time he felt he was lost.
  20. The world was too big, and he was small.
  21. He didn’t go out much.
  22. He didn’t talk to people much.
  23. He didn’t have any personal desires.
  24. Nothing mattered too much.
  25. But he wasn’t depressed. He had been depressed before. And the way he was—anhedonic, unable to pretend for other people—was nothing. He still was functioning.
  26. He was working hard.
  27. He was sleeping more.
  28. He was eating less.
  29. There was no time to cut.



There was no time to cut. He opened his eyes. With John gone, Sherlock had thrown himself into his work. He worked faster now that he didn’t have to wait for John and explain things to him. He had expected private clients outside of the Met to dwindle without the publicity from John’s blog. But for whatever reason—maybe he had created enough of a good name for himself—he was still heavily in demand. And John’s blog post had set off a buzz of activity that was sparking interest from the media. The Guardian published a short piece, _Web Detectives Split?_ And the Mail and the Sun had published stories that showed him as a brooding, angry, dark, seductive man jilted at love’s alter.

Secretly, Sherlock was enjoying the drama. It helped him stay focused and hungry. It reminded him that he existed, that he mattered. Vain though it was, swishing his Belstaff coat around helped him feel on top of his game, aware that every small task needed precision and perfection in order for a successful result.

He swayed slightly. Lestrade, standing to his left with his left hand clasped over his right, reached out and steadied him in one of those Lestrade-like movements. Economical. Minute. Concise and purposeful. Almost hidden. Lestrade’s wedding ring (more like divorce ring) glinted at him. Offensive, really, the shine. Almost worse than the stage lights. They were for appearances. He hated them on principle.

Sherlock allowed a small smile to drift onto his lips and tilted his head back. If that was how you counted things, he thought lightly, by appearances, his strategy was working. Look at all his awards! From the outside, it looked like he refused to quit life. Life was a big project, a book to be written. Every single word mattered. Standing up on the stage, a man whom nobody knew, he thought about his article published in the Journal of Forensic Science. He had been invited to be the keynote speaker at a forensics conference, and had accepted, enthusiastically. He had even been offered a deal to make a reality show about crime. The last offer amused him to no end.

He didn’t need John. But… he did need recognition to do his work, to stay motivated, to keep from disappearing, so he had agreed to a short print interview in the Guardian.

In this life, with his… fake motivations, and petty ambition… he was too busy to cut…. He was too busy to eat….

His coat was baggy…. He swayed again, not noticing Lestrade’s hand reaching out again….

The scabs on his arms had faded to pink scars, then to barely visible lines of opalescent white. He missed the feeling. He felt too disconnected now, removed from his body. He didn’t feel aware of himself. He forgot to eat. It was almost distressing. He wasn’t… he didn’t have an eating disorder. It was all right, the not eating. He liked it. He felt sharp. Right? He… couldn’t think…. But… he was more prone to shame, now, without cutting. Interactions with people left him confused, bereft, guilty. But he didn’t have time to cut. Cutting was too time consuming.

There was a roar…. It was so loud. But it was in the background. Stop it! He was trying to think!

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” Lestrade.

_What, Lestrade,_ Sherlock thought, but… the words didn’t seem to reach his mouth.

“Sherlock, the mayor is asking you to get up there.” Lestrade.

_Ah yes,_ he said. He took two wobbling steps. He felt so light.

Oh, shut up. They were all too loud. Too much applause. Too much noise.

It felt like he was floating.

A moment of peace.

Then more noise. More. Stop it.

Above it all, sirens. He looked up. Into lights the colors of Christmas. Someone tapping his cheek.

“He’s passed out, he’s passed out…”

Oh… he passed out… huh…

He was almost happy about it. He closed his eyes. Maybe this meant he could rest, stop everything. Stop this charade. Stop his life.

And, now he knew what they thought of him. He smiled. He was always all right. He almost thought he was incapable of breaking down, no matter how skinny and broken he was.... He wanted to laugh. In his youth this mean he never broke down… stamina… always functioning… and now… he wasn’t aware… his career was probably over.

Now… he was someone. All of a sudden… he didn’t have to survive anymore.

They saw it, finally… he needed to be locked up… he was a terrible person....

He closed his eyes... he let them take him away....

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

_He was so tired. He had been tired his entire adult life. One should grow stronger as one grows older. An adult should be stronger than their past selves._

_He felt like a pathetic monster. Bleeding, hunched over, holding itself in pain, ugly. His heart stuffed in a box. Too strong in the beginning. Too desperate to survive. Now, as an adult—he needed to be cast away. He was no good._

_He wouldn’t mind if he stayed here forever. His heart was liquid here. He could bathe in it. It felt warmer here. Far away from the mess he made of life. It smelled like lilacs. It sounded like bees. It tasted like honey. A bit of fresh, salty sea air. It felt like a perpetual exhale. Time was slower. Here he had space to breathe and love._

_He had been tired through his entire adulthood. Here he could feel the sea air whipping across his cheek. Rustling through his hair. He closed his eyes and could see the sun fighting to lighten the darkness. Red-gold and strong and passionate._

_The grass was soft against his back. He felt it between his fingers. Cool and ticklish. A hand, warm, took his. John. John was lying beside him by the shore, where there were bees and a garden. A garden! His thumb was caressing the skin above Sherlock’s knuckle._

_His heart—his heart in his throat. The sun on his skin. John smiled at him. Creases in the corners of his eyes. He was there. He wasn’t going anywhere._

_“Are you coming in for dinner?” John asked._

_“Mhm. Five more minutes,” Sherlock said. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”_

_“In that case, I’ll rest here with you.” John laid a kiss on his lips. He was all around him._

Please, _Sherlock thought,_ never leave me alone.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Thank you for staying with this story. I don't say it enough.


	13. Part 2 - Safe: In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART TWO  
> SAFE: IN YOUR ARMS

 

Please, _Sherlock thought,_ never leave me alone.

_It came cresting over him in waves. He felt his chest expanding. He felt the sun was rising from the depths of a hollow, heavy ocean, about to burst into orange shards reflected on blue. He never wanted to open his eyes—he never wanted to breathe again, not when he had this—not when his heart was swelling in his throat, not when there was brightness in his chest._

_Something was coming over him. Something so warm, so soft. He didn’t want to step away. He wanted to step closer. Was it an embrace? He couldn’t say. He was aching with the feeling. It was overwhelming him. He stepped closer. A moth drawn to a flame._

_No. Not a moth. He trusted. He was not brave or foolish. There was no need for that. Not anymore. He was safe._

_Come here, the warmth said, and he came._

 

 

 

 

 

Guilt.

He was suffocating in it. It crawled up his skin. He was drowning. It was too much.

Consciousness forced itself over his body, dragged his mind to the present. He could not escape. He kept his eyes closed anyway. He didn’t care where he was. Not when he felt so guilty. He thought if he didn’t know where he was, he wouldn’t exist.

If he didn’t exist, he wouldn’t be alone. If he wasn’t himself, he wouldn’t be alone.

He was so alone.

He could hear his breathing.

He was his own company. When he spoke, no one listened except himself.

Accompanying his breathing was a heart monitor.

So he did have a heart. And it told him what he did not want to know—that he was in a hospital. He fumbled shakily at the wires. Stop it. He didn’t want to know any more about his location, or his heart. It was the telltale beating of his heart. He didn’t want to deduce anymore. It was too much. He needed it to stop.

He couldn’t seem to grasp the wires. Pain shot up his arm. Everything felt so heavy. His fingers—they were clumsy, shaking. As if he had lost mobility. As if he had finally cut too deep, slicing through ligaments, tendons, muscle.

Veins.

He was losing his music. He couldn’t play his violin like this. He was losing control.

If life felt like this, he didn’t want it. If the only thing he had—if the only conclusion he could come to—was guilt—he didn’t want to be alive, didn’t want to think, didn’t want his genius brain anymore. He grasped harder at the wires but his fingers only slipped.

A warm, rough hand took his own gently. “Hey, sunshine, we don’t want to do that, yeah?” A care-worn voice.

Lestrade, he knew, without opening his eyes.

Sherlock let his hand fall limp. Lestrade didn’t let go. Sherlock felt trapped. The sound of the heart monitor pounded into his mind. Unbearable.

“How are we feeling, Sherlock?”

Sherlock screwed up his face. Huffed. Pain in his chest. Shook his head. Soreness in his neck. Tried to roll over away from Lestrade. Realized he was too weak. Achey. “Turn it off, please,” he whispered. Pain in his stomach.

There was a pause. Sherlock felt it eating away at the time it took. “Can’t, I’m sorry.”

“Please.”

“I can’t, Sherlock, I really can’t.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, lad,” Lestrade said. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

“Why does it hurt so much?” He kept his eyes closed.

Lestrade sighed. “You’re going to be in here for a while, Sherlock. They have you in here for—”

“Never mind,” Sherlock rasped. For the first time in his life, Sherlock didn’t want to know. He couldn’t anymore. He wanted the weight of the world off his shoulders for once.

The hospital blanket was bunched up by his feet. He could feel that his hospital gown was short sleeved. His ugly scarred arms. Naked. “Need the blanket.”

Lestrade laid the blanket over him. It was wool. It itched. He smelled disinfectant. It was too hot. He hid underneath the blanket.

He felt a hand push through his hair. Sick to his stomach.

“John told me everything,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock just breathed. It was hard to even breathe. It felt like his body was someone else’s now. He was out of control.

“He told me about the self-harm, Sherlock. I wish you’d… I wish you’d asked me for help. Or anyone.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock whispered.

“Hm?”

“You.”

Lestrade waited.

“I started cutting when I was living on your couch, during university.”

Lestrade didn’t say anything.

“I couldn’t just stop the drugs for you, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, and for some reason tears were springing into his eyes. “I—I couldn’t, it was too hard, okay? I—”

“Okay, it’s okay, Sunshine. It’s okay.”

“No—I mean—I’m getting it all wrong—I resumed cutting with you. I started when I was sixteen. I—I was—” Sherlock broke off.

“You were what, Sunshine?” Lestrade asked.

“I—I was a bad kid. I deserved it, okay?”

“What did you deserve?”

“Everything!”

“What’s everything, lad?”

But Sherlock turned away. “Can’t.”

Lestrade was silent. Then he said, “Can I hold your hand, Sunshine?”

Sherlock swallowed. Sniffed. Thought about his scars. “’Kay.”

Lestrade didn’t pull his blankets down like Sherlock thought he would. He reached under the blanket until he found Sherlock’s hand. Lestrade’s hand—the one that had steadied him, had caught him when he passed out on that stage—was warm and rough. It was doing strange things to Sherlock. His insides twisted. His throat felt tight. He felt like he was going to fall apart and he was terrified. This was a new body—he didn’t know how to keep himself from crying—and Lestrade was just… holding onto him, holding his hand tight, as if he were squeezing the last tears left from a land that had endured years of drought. Sherlock clutched back at Lestrade. Tried to breath in and out.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said. His voice cut through the heart monitor. “You… you were just a kid when you were sixteen, yeah? You know, the—the cutting, the drugs—they’re all things you decided to do. And, you know what I think about kids who do stuff like that? I think they shouldn’t’ve had to make that kind of a decision at all. They shouldn’t’ve felt so bad about themselves that they felt like they were all alone and had to take things into their own hands. Okay? They were kids—you were just a kid—and someone should’ve been watching out for you. You deserved _that_ , not whatever bad things you think you deserved.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I—I was really smart. I was horrifying. I was too smart.”

“I don’t care how smart you were when you were sixteen, Sunshine. You were a kid,” Lestrade said fiercely.

“I made bad things happen,” Sherlock whispered. He gripped Lestrade’s hand harder. The tears were starting to fall, finally, after years. “Really bad things. I made them hate me.”

Lestrade clutched his hand tightly, securely. Being touched was. It felt like. It felt like the first time someone had ever touched him. He felt like Lestrade was seeing right through him, was holding Sherlock’s naked, weary heart in his hands.

“Who hated you? Your parents? Bullies?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock froze. _My parents. My parents. My parents._ The words stuck in his throat. The tears were still leaking from his closed eyes. He couldn’t speak. His body felt as if were tied down. It hurt to move his body. He shrugged. He was paralyzed.

He thought about letting go of Lestrade’s hand, but settled with opening his eyes. It was too bright. He squinted, pushed away some tears. He cleared his throat. “Where’s John?”

Lestrade bit his lip. “He’s… not here, Sher.”

“Where is he?”

“With his sister, I expect. He doesn’t know you’re here.”

“You didn’t tell him? How do you know he wasn’t watching the ceremony on tellie?”

Lestrade shifted in his seat. “He… told me—well, he texted me. He said… he didn’t want to hear from you. He said he wanted a break.”

So John hadn’t been watching on tellie. Hadn’t seen him fall. He hadn’t seen the real him. Sherlock felt lost, all of a sudden. Abandoned. His breath shuddered of its own accord, tears fighting to escape. Lestrade tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand.

“Hey, Sunshine, I’m sure he’ll want to know. Okay? I’ll call him now.”

Sherlock turned his head away from Lestrade. Suddenly the DI didn’t seem as nice as usual. He’d latched onto Lestrade all those years ago not just because of the cases he offered, but because he’d desperately needed someone to be nice to him. Had clung to the kindness that Lestrade embodied. But this now felt like betrayal. But… what could he expect? The way he kept on… no one, not even John knew of his affection and regard towards the doctor. Shame flooded him.

“Wait, Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered, “don’t call John.”

Lestrade paused. “Why?”

“He… he won’t want to hear from me,” Sherlock said. “I did something bad.”

“Sunshine… it probably was just a misunderstanding, yeah?” Lestrade still has his phone out.

“No… I made him leave. He doesn’t want to hear from me,” Sherlock was gasping now, adamant. “Just leave him alone. Just let him be.”

“You’re not the bad guy, here,” Lestrade said, “just—it’s okay, you know. He’s going to find out anyway, from the news. He can’t just ignore it. You’re… you’re really popular in the media right now. It would be—”

“No, you can’t, Lestrade,” Sherlock gasped. Tears were leaking from his eyes again. “You can’t, it’ll—”

“Sher, if you really want to be good to him, we should tell him so he hears it from us, not from watching telly or something—”

“I—Lestrade—”

“You gotta make these hard decisions if you want to keep going, Sunshine, yeah? If you want to keep John in your life?”

Sherlock flinched. “I—can’t. I just can’t anymore.” The dread was like sweet treacle in his bones. “I’ve been doing the hard thing for a long time! Okay? I don’t care. Do what you want. I—I’m just done! I don’t want to keep going!”

Lestrade frowned. “It looked like you were going on pretty well.”

Sherlock face seemed to screw up of its own accord. “I—I was pretending. I’m good at that.” He wanted to burrow under the covers. He wanted to hide away forever, and the tears wouldn’t stop. They tore from his body. He wasn’t strong enough for this kind of grief.

“So, what _do_ you want?” Lestrade asked. He had his honest policeman’s face on.

Sherlock glared at his blankets.

“Well, what do you want, for, I dunno, for dinner?”

Sherlock let out a sob. “I don’t know! I just want it all to stop.”

Lestrade sighed. He looked very tired. “What about your other engagements? Speaking at the forensics conference?”

“I—” Sherlock started, calming minutely. “I don’t have a choice do I? I’ll have to speak. Unless they don’t want me anymore.”

Lestrade bit his lip. “Look, I don’t know, I haven’t heard anything about it. But… you’ll have to decide, Sunshine. I can help you if you want.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. The world wanted too much from him. “Yes,” he said. “Please help me.”

“Well—oh. Oh. Yeah, of course,” Lestrade said.

“I’m in here ‘cause they think I’m anorexic, don’t they?”

“…Well, yeah.”

“I’m not. I just forgot to eat.”

Lestrade chuckled. “That’s what I told them probably happened. They didn’t believe me.”

“They never do.”

“So, I guess you must be pretty hungry, right?” Lestrade said. “What do you want to eat? I bet you don’t want anything from the cafeteria here.”

 _Something light, first,_ Sherlock thought. But he didn’t want to have to be in charge of himself anymore. He was so tired. God, so tired. So he said, “Chips. I want chips.”

“Maybe something light first,” Lestrade said. And Sherlock’s heart felt so… indescribable. “Maybe some of that soup you like? The egg drop soup from that Chinese place?”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, quietly. He didn’t know if he should smile or cry.

“And then, I’ll talk to the doctors again and we’ll let you rest. I know you don’t have an eating disorder, Sunshine. You just need to rest, yeah? You just need lots of rest and… maybe a bit of habit change about those eating habits.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes again as Lestrade stepped aside with his phone out, this time to call the Chinese place he liked, and not John. The truth was that the entire time John was gone, Sherlock missed him. He missed him so much, and he knew he didn’t deserve to see him again, not after being violent with him. _That_ was his big decision. He needed to keep himself in check. He’d let John decide on his own without any manipulation from Sherlock. Nothing else mattered. He just had to keep himself from turning into his father. He knew—he _had_ to have some humanity left. He had to. He didn’t want to hurt people. And if that meant retiring, that would be fine with Sherlock. If that meant handing back all his awards, Sherlock would do it. He had never wanted to be the scary man in the house. He never wanted to hurt John.

The guilt made his stomach churn. Egg drop soup. Lestrade was better, safer than John. He wouldn’t hurt him, because he didn’t care enough about him. Lestrade was safe. Greying and weary and familiar. Egg drop soup.

 


End file.
